Deals With the Devil
by Cindelina
Summary: April 23rd, 1727. Arthur Kirkland makes a deal with the devil.


AN: Hello. I am back after six months. Though come on, you probably don't know me. I hope you enjoy this, despite it being a bit short.

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The joys and woes of loves rarely crossed Arthur's mind. It was often occupied with the thoughts of business and life and money and being cautious and did he lock the door and why -

A small sigh escaped from his lips, half-lidded eyes staring listlessly at the Frenchman asleep on his side. His awareness of his surroundings suddenly sharpened. The occasional bug that flitted past the dingy light cast shadows on the floor. Perhaps this was what love was. Basking in the afterglow, their ankles linked, breaths mingling with one another, relaxing in each other's warmth. He saw the eyelids of the other man fluttered. Arthur shut his eyes. He had no intention of being accused of watching other people sleep. Though maybe he had closed his eyes too quickly, or too hard, as a voice whispered to him,

"You are awake, are you not?"

The sudden voice startled Arthur, causing him to shake off the arm wrapped around his waist. He let out a small breath, before opening his eyes and giving the nameless man a small nod.

"The time?"

Arthur didn't bother to move, expecting the other to do so. The man did nothing but turn around to create a small opening in the drapes. Arthur, showing no intention to move, simply gave him a tired look. His eyes shifted to the small opening in the curtains. He saw little but the reflection of the moonlight on water puddled into a small valley of the poorly cobbled ground. The relief that washed over him at the sight was instantaneous. Sleep. Sleep is all that he could think of; it clouded his mind and the contact his head made with the soft pillow was bliss.

His subconscious told him to grip the hand of the stranger and to never let go. Maybe it was instinctual, or maybe it was an unforeseen force that compelled him to do so, telling him that this would be the first and only time. To his relief, he smiled and squeezed back, pulling them both under the scraggy covers. And Arthur paid no heed to that whatsoever, taking this last opportunity for granted and just lay there, his mind free from any distractions.

The morning started off like any other. Well, that was until the Englishman shifted onto his side, to be greeted by a half-naked Frenchman sitting at a table, forcing himself to swallow that poor excuse for bread. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, shining onto him. It almost looked like a heavenly glow had been cast around the stranger. Well, that was until Arthur took a closer look at him. There was no 'heavenly glow', he was the dirty Frenchman who had somehow coerced him to bed with him. His mind completely turned away from the dreamland and his eyes shot the stranger a glare.

"Just who exactly are you?" he demanded, crossing his arms. Uncertainty tainted his expression. Did this greasy clown mistake him for some cheap two-penny whore? But then, why on earth would he decide to stay? Or perhaps this stranger was a prostitute, waiting for his pay? But the garments that clothed him were of higher quality of his. Oh damn, did he accidentally pick up a high-class escort? Crap. He knew he didn't have to money to pay him. All of that went through his mind, and just before the stranger could open his mouth, Arthur questioned rather rudely, "You're not one of those whores, are you?"

The Frenchman's eyes widened for a few seconds, before shaking his head. A small smile spread through his features as the initial shock wore off.

"Mon Dieu, of course I am not," he chuckled, pushing his chair away. After quickly dusting off bread crumbs and smiling weakly at the angry Englishman, he patted him on the head once. Once, otherwise Arthur would've probably headbutted him. More than once. An acidic glare was shot his way, prompting the Frenchman to leave.

And so he did.

The way he left was nothing out of the ordinary, but the memory was seared into his mind; the way his expression darkened slightly, the barely visible slouch of his shoulders, and the rough yet slender fingers that managed to run through Arthur's hair one last time before leaving the room.

And maybe the unnamed Frenchman left a note on the table. Maybe Arthur noticed it. Maybe he pocketed it and tried his best to keep a scowl on his face instead of a stupid grin. Maybe he didn't snap at his slaves for delivering his tea three degrees colder than it should be. Maybe the note was comprised of a string of words, all of which professed their love for him. Maybe this was something that the Frenchman left for all his flings, but Arthur knew that it was the first time anybody had written anything about him. Anything positive about him.


End file.
